


a joke nobody tells

by nastally



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Board Games, Freddie is a bit of a mess, Gen, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied Past Emotional Trauma, Internalized Homophobia, John doesn't know wtf is going on, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash OR Platonic, Roger is a bit of an idiot, Scrabble, Sharing a Bed, Twister - Freeform, Unreliable Narrator, You Decide, a fair amount of alcohol, crippling self-doubt, froger - Freeform, implied disordered eating, it's funny too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: In summer 1971, QUEEN rent a cottage in Cornwall for two weeks. They're going to have a brilliant time, Roger thinks. And he's not wrong. After all, everyone's laughing.Until one of them isn't.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 83
Kudos: 64





	a joke nobody tells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts).



> Queen did rent a cottage for two weeks in August 1971. It was the only time they ever lived together, and apparently also a good bonding experience as John had not been in the band for very long. Before John, three different bassists had played with them. Mike Grose, Barry Mitchell and Doug Bogie. Miffer was the drummer in Freddie's previous band, Ibex, and left around the time when Freddie renamed the band to Wreckage.
> 
> This is a gift for Freddieofhearts. Originally, the prompt she gave me was simply 'Froger Hurt/Comfort'. And then, this happened:  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185412286@N08/50185304546/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> And an idea was born. Thanks for the inspiration and I really hope you enjoy the read! ❤️  
> I hope everyone else does, too. 😁
> 
> Thank you very, very much to BisexualRoger, who is a legend, for beta reading this.
> 
> (Not DoA-verse.)

“It is almost a joke, but a joke that nobody tells.”  
― Hilary Mantel

\- - -

They spill into the inviting shade of the stuffy room, sweaty after the drive. Mid-summer heat and coastal air. All of them laden with their belongings, which even though they are few, present almost the entire contents of their wardrobes back in London. And more, in Freddie and Roger's case. Bags stuffed with threads from Kensington Market - a scarf, a blouse, a jacket chucked in at the last minute in a bout of indecision.

"This is nice." Brian sounds pleasantly surprised. 

"Told you so, didn't I!" Roger, who has already thrown himself onto the sofa, tilts his head back and turns in Freddie's direction, following their lead singer with his gaze. "Double bed?" he calls, as Freddie pokes his head into the bedroom. 

Re-emerging, Freddie nods to him and glances over at the other two. 

"Ah, well." Roger sighs. 

They're lucky enough to have got it so cheap for two weeks, a slightly cramped sleeping situation is nothing to complain about. Brian drops his bag by the coffee table and lowers himself next to Roger, bouncing experimentally as he inspects what is evidently a sofa bed. John is still hovering beside the door, taking in the interior of the rustic cottage with a neutral, if curious, expression. 

"Shall we flip a coin for the bedroom?" Roger suggests, already reaching into his pocket. 

"For whoever gets to share it with me, you mean?" 

There's a smirk on Freddie's face. He slides his bag off his shoulder, gracefully arranging himself on the armrest next to Roger. 

"I beg your pardon! Why's that?" The drummer huffs with a scandalised look, all playful exaggeration. It's met with a toothy grin, soon hidden behind lips pulled tight. 

"I'm the lead singer, my dear, it's how these things are done." 

"Is that right?" 

"Naturally."

"Well, I'm the lead guitarist, I'll have you know." Brian pipes up, pointing a finger at the cheeky singer. 

Roger looks between his friends, amused, and notices that John's smile is uncertain when he joins them and sits down on a stool across from them. It doesn't escape Freddie's notice, either. 

He tilts his head to the side, fingers always in motion, threading through his dark curls as his own smile falters. "I'm only joking, darling." 

"Right." The bassist gives him a nod, his smile friendlier now, but reserved. Polite. "I don't mind where I sleep."

"You an early bird?" Roger asks, contemplating the prospect of sharing a room with John. 

The younger man raises his eyebrows and looks at his bandmates. "I don't know, not particularly? I'll sleep wherever you want me to though. Really." 

"Right, John's sleeping in the tub," Roger announces, giving him a wink. 

Everyone chuckles, including John, who lowers his eyes. "I didn't mean it like that…" 

"I don't mind, actually," says Brian, absently rubbing at a stain on his trousers. Butter from the cheese and pickle sandwiches they shared in the van, probably. Courtesy of John. "Why don't you and Freddie take the bedroom, Rog? John and I can sleep out here." 

"Well, if it's all the same to you…" Freddie's voice is light and nonchalant, and notedly devoid of protest. 

"That alright with you, John?" Roger asks, tucking his wallet away again. 

The bassist nods. "Fine by me." 

Roger flashes Freddie a grin and sticks his tongue out between his teeth. "Brilliant. Stuck with _you_ again, am I?"

Freddie, leaning on the backrest beside him, purses his lips. His eyes are full of mirth behind his sunglasses as he gives Roger the two-finger salute. 

"Did you used to share a room?" John asks, making conversation. Brian gets to his feet with a little grunt of effort and crosses to the window.

"We used to share _every_ thing." Freddie reminisces with a sigh, and Roger snorts. 

"Clothes," he agrees. Mostly that, and they still do. 

"Secrets…" 

"Bread sauce." 

This time it's Freddie who snorts with laughter. Both of them almost launch into the story then, because poor John looks puzzled, but in the end neither of them makes a start. It's probably that sort of thing; you just had to be there. 

They linger in silence, not quite sure where to begin making themselves at home in their new abode. Brian has opened the window. The humid, warm August breeze wafting in from outside is hardly refreshing. 

But it makes the particles of dust dance in the air prettily, in a beam of late afternoon sun. 

Roger watches Freddie watch them. The raven-haired man has gone still and slipped off into his own world. Maybe he's thinking about Ferry Road. Roger is. Maybe they both miss living together a bit, if they're honest. All but on top of each other and in each other's pockets. Brian, too. It could get a bit much, of course. Still, it had been fun. Hadn't it? That kind of mad time in your life, chaotic but perfect. You'd find yourself missing it even as you lived it, aware that you'd never be able to recapture it once it was over. 

But this, right here, feels a bit like it - and Roger's chest is suddenly light and filled with excitement for the fortnight to come.

"You can smell the sea, can't you? I think… hear it, too." Brian is talking to himself at the window. 

Suddenly, with a big sigh and a flourish of his hand, Freddie is back in the room and animated again, already on his feet. 

"Dear me, I need a shower. I'm sweating like a whore in church!" 

And with that, he waltzes through to the bedroom, his bag in tow. 

\- - -

It's a small townhall and then a pub in St Agnes the first two days, followed by a midday gig at the pavilion in Falmouth on the third. Roger now knows one thing, and that is that he should have never allowed his mum to promote his band unsupervised. 

The Legendary Drummer of Cornwall Roger Taylor and QUEEN, the local paper promises.

His bandmates, and a couple of his friends, who've turned up to see the show and brought a newspaper clipping along, all take the mickey mercilessly. He'll never live it down. 

After the matinée, the get-out and an early pub dinner, the four musicians return to the cottage just as the sun is setting. The mood is mellow, tired contentment all around. They've debriefed and discussed, congratulated each other and been congratulated on a solid performance. Even Brian and Freddie are done with their nitpicking by the time they've all gathered around the coffee table. The conversation flows, and so does the Southern Comfort from the bottle Roger invested in upon arrival. It goes down easy, mixed with chilled Coca-Cola, refreshing in the summer heat. 

It's not that they're _trying_ to get drunk. 

Well, Freddie definitely isn't, but he's a bit of a lightweight anyway so it doesn't take much. John is also merry after a couple of drinks, cheeks rosy and his gap-toothed smile relaxed and unguarded. Brian has mellowed into a sprawl on the armchair, one leg over an armrest, waving a hand about haphazardly as he talks about the finer points of guitar tuning. Roger has tuned out and just nods along, contemplating a cigarette. And then he contemplates Freddie instead, who has his chin in his hand, a good-natured, attentive expression on his face as he listens to their guitarist. He’s sitting curled up at one end of the sofa, feet tucked underneath himself. Christ, isn’t he uncomfortable in those trousers? They’re all still at least partly in their stage outfits, and Freddie is still wearing skin-tight black satin trousers. Roger doesn’t know how he’s not bursting out of them after dinner. But then again, Freddie eats like a bird and didn’t have the large plate of chips and cottage pie Roger had.

"Oh!" John exclaims, and Roger realises the conversation has lulled as his attention returns to the present moment. "Do you know what Brian and I found?" 

"Oh, that's right!" Brian reaches over to slap John's knee lightly. "Thank you, I'd completely forgotten. Speaking of entertainment-" he looks at Roger then, who may have complained more than once that there isn't so much as a radio in their rented cottage. Meanwhile, John has already jumped up and opened a compartment at the very top of the living room cupboard. 

"Look at this." 

Roger laughs out loud. "No way!"

"What have we got here?" Freddie sits up straight on the sofa, delighted at the idea of a hidden treasure. 

"Board games." Brian grins.

"Cor!” Roger puts down his glass and goes to join John. “Let's have a look." He's spotted Scrabble and Cluedo from afar, and there's a few more. Checkers, something called Concentration - John pulls down the last box, while Roger piles them all up on the coffee table beside their glasses - and: "Twister!" he exclaims, as John holds up the last game. Roger takes it out of his hands. "This one's brilliant!" 

“Oh yes, I had a look at that.” Brian takes it off him, shows it to Freddie, who's never heard of it. All of them have played or heard of most of the games, except Freddie. He doesn't quite share their excitement and sips his drink, eyeing the games dubiously before passing them back. 

It's John who immediately matches Roger's level of childlike, somewhat drunken enthusiasm when he ends up with Twister in his hands. “Shall we have a go?”

"Oh God," Brian rolls his eyes with a smile, but agrees to play anyway.

"I don't know what you're moaning about!" Roger has taken it upon himself to move the coffee table now, and it screeches across the floorboards, making Freddie wince. "You've got an unfair advantage anyway, with your-" He straightens up for a moment, gesturing at Brian. "Your arms and your legs and all that." 

"All that!" Freddie echoes and claps his hands, laughing. 

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Roger waves a hand. 

"Actually," Brian tips his glass in Roger's direction, "I reckon you're wrong. My money's on Freddie." 

Freddie is still chuckling, but looks a little caught out then. "Who says I'm playing?"

"'Course you're playing!" Roger tells him. “Don’t be stupid, we’re all playing.”

"You're very flexible," Brian explains, turning to Freddie, who is looking at the Twister mat John has unfolded as though it's a map of a strange new world he's never seen. 

However, perhaps buttered up by Brian’s assessment of his dexterity, he puts his reservations aside and gets up to stretch, demanding to know how this is supposed to work then. The rules are simple and soon explained, and they’ve pushed the furniture aside enough to put the mat down in the centre of the room. They’re already laughing at themselves as they take their places, Freddie and Brian on one side and John and Roger across from them, the spinner wheel on the floor beside them.

“If one of us sprains a wrist or something-” Brian snorts with a grin.

“Don’t!” Roger grins back, pointing a finger at him.

“Right, let’s do this, lovvies, I’m ready!” announces Freddie, clapping his hands to call everyone to attention. Apparently he’s decided to rise to the challenge now - he’s got that look in his eye, Roger knows it well. Freddie is nothing if not competitive. They're going to have a gas.

John leans down to spin the wheel, and not five minutes later, Roger is proven right as far as the amusement value of the game is concerned. Already, they are in a contorted tangle, wobbling and in danger of falling all over each other because they can’t stop laughing, setting each other off with every new move. Brian’s arms are shaking as much as his stomach as he tries to hold himself up in a position resembling a crab. John is bent over him, arse in the air, his head under Roger’s left armpit. Meanwhile, Roger's face is worryingly close to Freddie’s crotch. They catch each other’s eye and Roger waggles his eyebrows, sending Freddie into a fit of giggles.

“You bastard-” Freddie almost loses his balance. “Foul play!”

Roger, of course, is innocent. “I’m not doing anything!”

“I’ll tell you what’s foul,” John pipes up, voice muffled. “Phoar, I can’t breathe!” He comically gulps for air.

“Embrace the musk,” Roger rasps, intentionally leaning closer to him, and the rest of them are wheezing. 

“Turn the bloody thing!”

“I can’t bloody reach it!”

“Hey, Bri has his arse on the floor, that’s cheating!”

“I do _not_!”

“Left hand, red!” Freddie finally calls. He sounds like he’s crying with laughter.

Brian and John bump into each other, and it’s their downfall. They collapse in a heap, almost taking Freddie down with them, but he holds himself up valiantly, even while cackling at their defeat.

“Ow,” moans Brian, amidst peals of laughter, crawling backwards away from them. 

“Ha-HAH! Two down!” Roger exclaims gleefully while John rolls off the mat and spins the spinner.

“Right foot, yellow!”

“You’re going down, Mercury!”

“Oh, we shall see about that, darl-”

They’re all still on the floor, all still snickering when it happens. The unmistakable sound of fabric tearing cuts Freddie off, and there’s a second of stunned silence, before the realisation hits that he has just torn the seam of his trousers all along the backside. Eyes wide, he’s dropped to the floor rather ungracefully, craning his neck to see, and it sends them all howling and rolling. 

“Oh my _God_!” John tips over to his side, arms around his middle “Right down the crack!”

Brian is no better off. “Haha, oh Fred! Oh no!”

“Lay off the pies, mate!” Roger shouts. 

It’s one of those things. It means nothing, and renewed cries of laughter fill the room. 

Then, several things happen at once. 

As Roger is wiping his eyes, it dawns on him that the only one not laughing is Freddie. There’s a caricature of a smile on his face, like he’s trying, but he just can’t manage.

“Yes, funny,” he mumbles, and then, “shut up-”, a tremor in his voice as he briskly gets to his feet and rushes straight off to the bedroom, noisily shutting the door behind himself.

Brian and Roger have fallen silent, blinking at the door, and John’s laughter peters out.

“Oh,” he says.

Yeah, _oh_ , Roger thinks. Oh shit. He glances over at Brian, who meets his eyes. Botched that up, didn’t we?

“...Is he alright?” John asks carefully, sounding quite concerned.

"Did you have to say that," Brian admonishes Roger under his breath. 

"It was a _joke_ ," Roger hisses back and proceeds to get up on his feet. “I'm gonna…” He gestures to the door with his thumb. Brian nods. John does, too, although he looks very lost and much like he's just copying Brian. 

With a sigh, Roger turns to the door. Christ, he’s probably too drunk for whatever’s in there. Why does Freddie have to be like that? He thinks resentfully even as he lays a hand on the door handle. But he feels guilty all the same. Giving the door a rap with his knuckles, Roger pushes the handle down.

“Fred?”

There’s no response, so he pokes his head in, half expecting to have something thrown at him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s been guilty of it, too, in the past. But nothing goes flying, and so he edges into the room almost as if he’s trying to go unnoticed. 

Freddie is sitting on the bed, illuminated only by the pale glow falling in through the window - distant street lamps and moonlight - his head bowed and dark curls hiding his face. Even so, he turns away as Roger enters. 

“Hey…” Roger says, quietly closing the door behind him. “You alright there?”

While Freddie says nothing, his body speaks volumes. Shoulders slouched and hands curled into each other in his lap, he looks like he’d disappear inside himself if he could. Roger watches his Adam’s apple bob and takes a step closer.

“Come on,” he sighs, propping his hands up on his hips. “We weren’t-” 

We weren’t laughing at you, he wants to say, but the truth is, they _were_. They clearly didn’t mean anything by it though, for crying out loud! 

“It was funny.” He tries not to chuckle as he says it. “I’m sorry, okay? There’s no need to…”

“I _know_ ,” Freddie suddenly turns to him, hands curling into fists, his dark eyes thunderous. “There’s no need to- to make such a _fuss_ , is there. Don’t you think I know that?”

“Er…” Roger really isn’t sure what Freddie thinks he knows, because it doesn’t look like he knows that there’s no need to be so upset over a couple of harmless jokes. Freddie turns away again, discreetly dabbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Roger heaves another sigh, tilting his head to one side. He almost doesn’t want to say what he says next, because that feels like validating a notion that is patently, _stupidly_ untrue. He doesn’t like to think that this is something Freddie might really have taken to heart. Finds it infuriating, in fact, to the point of wanting to grab him and shake the very idea out of his head. 

“Please tell me it’s not ‘cause I said the thing about the pies?” 

There’s no reply. 

“It’s funny ‘cause it’s ridiculous. You know that, right? I mean, Christ, Freddie, d’you realise we wear the same clothes?” He can’t help but laugh, then, and is cautiously relieved when Freddie gives a tiny, dismissive shake of his head. However, he still isn’t speaking and so Roger keeps talking instead. “Sorry about your trousers. We shouldn’t have laughed,” he admits, in hindsight, because it’s never funny when you’re the one being laughed at. Is it? It occurs to Roger that Freddie has probably been in that sort of situation more times than he’d like to admit. The teeth alone, and the… well. Everything else. Kids can be right bastards. Roger knows that, too. So are grown men, of course. There’s always someone taking the mickey, but Freddie gives as good as he gets. “Look, we’ve all had a bit to drink, haven’t we-”

“Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” Freddie says with a quiet, dignified sniff.

“Okay, good." Roger chews his lip for a few moments, a bit confused as to what in the world is going on then, because something definitely is. "So...” he tries, nodding towards the door, “come on. Fancy another drink?”

“No,” Freddie whispers, but at least he doesn’t seem quite so cross anymore. Roger comes closer and perches down on the edge of the bed. It sounds like John and Brian are moving the furniture back into place back in the living room.

“Are you… just gonna sit here by yourself then? In the dark?” Roger ventures after a moment, the hint of a smile on his lips. In a vain hope that Freddie will realise just how silly he’s being.

The raven-haired man huffs out a breath and throws a minute glance at the door. “I can’t-” He gulps, and Roger catches a glimpse of his face before he tries to hide it again. It makes him feel like a bad friend for trying to make light of whatever’s going on here. Because no matter how ridiculous it seems, Freddie really _is_ upset. And Roger has no idea what to say. 

“What’s up, eh?” he asks gently. “Really.”

A breeze ruffles the curtain, a pleasant gust of cool night air that brings with it the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore. 

“What he must think of me,” Freddie mutters, so quietly Roger isn’t sure if he has heard right.

“What? Who?”

Out of sheer surprise, it seems, Freddie forgets not to look at him. “John,” he utters, eyes glistening, incredulous that it isn't obvious.

Roger frowns at him with all the concentration he can muster, in a sadly pointless attempt to peer inside his head and figure out what in the bloody hell is going on in there. Because he’s got no idea what he’s missing. “What do you mean?”

And then, with an irritated flick of his wrist, Freddie says the most bizarre thing of all. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He keeps his voice low, which makes the slight lisp more pronounced. “He already hates me.”

“Wha-” Roger gives a startled laugh. “The _fuck_ are you talking about!? He doesn’t hate-”

Freddie shushes him with a mixture of anger and desperation, and Roger readjusts the volume and pitch of his voice, toning it down to a half-whisper. “What in the bloody hell makes you think _that_?”

Freddie’s jaw is working, perhaps trying to form the words of his response as he stares down at his hands, picking at his painted nails. “He thinks I’m a stuck up ponce.”

Roger scoffs. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, _please_ , Roger.”

“He _doesn’t_ -” 

“Well, he doesn’t like me any more than Barry did, or Miffer, or- or Doug-”

“ _You_ didn’t like Doug.” Roger snorts. “Brian didn’t like Doug.” He turns a bit thoughtful, recalling their last bassist who’d been with them for all of two gigs. “I mean, none of us really liked Doug, to be honest, he was kind of an annoying little-”

“Well, it isn’t about Doug!” Freddie snaps.

“Yeah,” Roger immediately agrees, redirecting his attention to the matter at hand. “Yeah, no, it isn’t. And you’re dead wrong about…” He nods his head towards the door. “Freddie, if anything, he’s bloody terrified of you.”

Freddie’s eyebrows rise up, the look on his face one of puzzled dismay.

“I mean,” says Roger, rubbing his face, “not _terrified_ , maybe. But… intimidated, you know? Fred, he’s not exactly… I mean, I find him a bit hard to read, too. Sometimes. But I think he just doesn’t know what to say to you, you know? We’re all really good mates, you and Bri and I, and we’re all older than him.”

“You don’t say,” Freddie mutters darkly. 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit… look, he’s probably not sure how he fits in. I felt a bit like that at first, with Brian and Tim. They’d known each other for donkey’s years and I was new, it was... Anyway, he definitely doesn’t _hate_ you.”

“And how would you know that if you find him hard to read?”

“Freddie-”

“I’m running out of time.” The genuine note of despair in the singer’s voice silences Roger. “ _We’re_ running out of time,” Freddie says, meeting his eyes. “Do you know how old the Beatles were when their first record hit the charts? Or any up and coming group, you name them. They’re _his_ age, Roger. Not… not mine. I’ll be twenty-five in a few weeks.”

Roger breaks into a grin. “Well, yeah, but you’re acting like a child, so… OW, fuck!” Freddie’s punched him in the arm so hard it feels like it’s going to leave a bruise. “Ow.” He rubs his arm, frowning, while his friend stares daggers at him.

“Everything’s a fucking joke to you, isn’t it.” Voice icy, Freddie’s up from the bed and goes to stand by the wall opposite him, arms crossed.

“Alright, listen.” Roger’s frown deepens into a scowl, jaw stiffening with the onset of anger, sparked by frustration. He’s tipsy and tired, which does not promote patience, and he's _doing his best_. And Freddie’s being fucking impossible. “You think you’re the only one who’s trying not to- trying not to bloody well throw in the towel, are you?” Roger rises to his feet and squares his shoulders, taking a step forward, undaunted by Freddie’s murderous glare and, in fact, returning it. “Well, guess what? I’m going back to college in a couple of weeks. Never thought I’d be doing that, did I. Cause I thought- I thought we’d have made it by now. And we haven’t!” Roger throws out his arms. “So don’t you bloody dare talk to me like I don’t understand! Okay? It’s not just you! We’re in this _together_. So what are we gonna do about it?” Freddie’s lips are a tight, thin line as Roger holds his gaze. A challenge, yes, but also a plea. “Give up?”

“No.” Black eyes flash with stubborn indignation and the spark of determination, smudged kohl around the edges. “Never.”

Roger nods.

“Well then.” He props his hands up on his hips, staring Freddie down although he isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. Perhaps a wry smile, an acknowledgement that he’s right. Because he knows he’s right. Knows as well as Freddie does that they won’t give up, so why mope? Why think like that? What’s the point? But then, Freddie huffs out a shuddering breath and sags against the wall. Drops his chin to his chest and wraps his arms around himself tighter. And Roger’s anger drains away like water on dry sand.

“If he didn’t think I was insufferable before...” Freddie swallows, and doesn’t finish the sentence. There’s a pause, as though he’s waiting for Roger to confirm what he thinks he already knows. Except he can’t quite wait long enough, and so he does it himself. “It’s been over a year and no one’s wanted to stay on for more than a- a few months.” His voice grows quieter, a small quiver in it. “He’s good. Roger, he’s really good. What if… what if he doesn’t want to stay either?”

And that is when Roger finally understands. Hears what Freddie isn’t saying, but what he must have been thinking, this whole time.  
Every conversation with quiet, reserved John. Is he keeping his opinions to himself, like Barry did? _‘Yeah, sorry, guys- Looking for a different kind of sound- Don’t think this is my thing, really-’_  
Every curious but often unreadable look during rehearsals, as Freddie exuberantly speaks with his hands as much as his words, explaining his vision. Is there a hint of the same underlying derision he saw in his previous bandmates’ eyes? _’Yeah, alright, Freddie- Just, it’s a rock n’ roll concert we’re playing, yeah? Not a cabaret-’_  
Every time they perform, John just behind his shoulder. Watching him. Watching the audience watch Freddie. The odd sneer, the odd jeer - more often as they’re packing up, just loud enough to reach their ears. _’Way over the top- camp as a row of tents- could tone it down a bit- good sound, shame about the- looks like a proper- oi, princess- bunch o’ bloody poofs-’_

Freddie is looking up at him now, chewing his lips. And the question he hasn’t asked hangs between them unspoken. _’It is me, isn’t it?’_

“Listen.” Roger says firmly. “First of all,” he takes a step towards Freddie, which brings them almost chest to chest, “anyone who doesn’t see you for what you are, which is a bloody good lead singer, is an idiot. D’you hear me? And I don’t want any idiots in our band. So they can fuck right off. Second of all,” Roger continues, “John looks up to you. And you’re right, he is good. I think we’re really bloody lucky that we’ve found him, and I don’t think he’s an idiot, you know. I think you should go out there, and be his friend. ‘Cause I reckon he wants to be yours.”

His words are met with a shake of the head, but there’s a glimpse of a smile, before Freddie’s hand flies up to hide his face. “He barely knows me.”

“Exactly.” Roger says simply. “But I do. And I’m sure as hell not going anywhere.” 

Freddie’s face is in the shadows, but they don’t quite hide the glimmer of fresh tears in his eyes. _D’you want a hug?_ Roger wants to ask, because Freddie looks like he does. And it’s a stupid question, because Freddie always melts into you like he’s just been waiting to be hugged, and the truth is, it’s Roger who wants to hug him right now. 

And so he does.

Two arms lightly wrap around his waist in return. Freddie smells of something faintly sweet and of himself, and his hair tickles the side of Roger’s face. It’s dark and quiet. How much time passes after Freddie murmurs a quiet ‘thank you’ into Roger’s shoulder is only for them to know, and for no one else to judge or question. Roger doesn’t.

“Come on then.” He smiles as they separate. “What’s the damage?”

Freddie gives him a quizzical look.

“Your trousers.”

“Oh.” Freddie lowers his eyes, hands reaching behind himself. 

“Wait.” Turning back to the bed, Roger makes for the lamp on the night stand and switches it on. When he looks again, Freddie has his back to him, peering down over his shoulder. His hands move away from the large tear along the seam of his trousers. 

“Yeah,” Roger snorts, and very nearly lifts a hand to touch it, but stops himself in time. “It’s pretty bad.”

“I can sew it up,” Freddie sighs. “Well, I’ll have to.”

“Yeah, you can do it tomorrow. It’ll be good as new,” Roger catches Freddie’s eye as the singer turns back around. “Or,” he proposes with a small smirk, “you could wear your Mercury suit.”

Freddie shakes his head a little. Then he nods, biting back a smile. Roger knows he wasn’t going to wear that, originally. Not in the small towns. But Roger also knows that he’s brought it along. It’s a daring one-piece, shiny, skin-tight and cut low in the front. The sort of getup which really gets a reaction, and outside of the big cities, it’s not necessarily the sort of reaction they’re going for. Then again, it’s good to make a splash. 

“We’ll see.” Freddie gives a shrug, looking a little intrigued by the idea now. “Maybe I will.” His eyes flick back to Roger. “Go on, dear. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You coming back?” Roger feels reluctant to leave, but Freddie does seem a lot calmer now. Pensive, almost.

“Yes,” he assures him.

“Alright.”

The bedroom door creaks when Roger opens it, and two heads turn to look at him even as he quickly slips out and closes it behind himself. There’s a pregnant silence. Brian’s gaze is one of expectant concern. John just looks deeply uncomfortable. And then Roger points to the bottle on the coffee table, raising his eyebrows. 

“Are you two finishing my whiskey?” he demands, almost squeals, with playfully exaggerated outrage. Brian takes the hint.

“We bloody well would be, if there was any coke left!” he retorts, holding up his empty glance.

“Pfft!” Roger saunters over, grabs a glass which might be his own - it’s empty, at any rate - and pours himself a small measure neat before he plops down on the sofa.

And that’s that. It’s a line drawn. There will be no mention of Freddie’s absence, nor the abrupt end to their attempt at Twister. _’It’s just Freddie being Freddie,’_ Roger thinks. _’You can’t explain that. It just is.’_ Brian knows, and John will figure it out. And if Roger is right, then he isn’t Barry, and he isn’t Mike or Miffer. He’ll understand. God, Roger hopes that he will.

He smiles at the bassist and asks him if he’d like a bit more whiskey. John grimaces but nods his assent, holding out his glass. Then coughs when he takes a sip. 

The bedroom door opens and Freddie waltzes into the room, clad in jeans and a shirt that is technically Roger's. Neither of them really bothers with such technicalities. 

“I’ll have to sew those bloody trousers back together tomorrow!” he announces with a roll of his eyes and a smile, before anyone else has a chance to say anything. “What’s the time?”

“Half past ten,” Brian tells him, checking his wristwatch.

“That’s well early!” Roger takes a sip of his freshly poured drink. Even he can’t quite do it without pulling a face. 

Freddie has rounded the sofa and looks between Roger and John’s glasses, aghast. “Roger! Is that neat whiskey?” 

“ _Oh, show me the way to the next whiskey bar_ ,” Roger sings, waggling his eyebrows, while Freddie perches down on the armrest of the worn armchair John is sitting in.

“He’s trying to poison you, dear!” He turns to John then, one hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to.”

“It’s alright,” John chuckles as he looks up at him, eyes crinkling, then gives Roger an apologetic glance. “I don’t think I like it very much though, if I’m honest.”

“Let me try,” Freddie plucks the glass out of his hand and brings it up to his nose, then immediately pulls back with a shudder as if he’s never sniffed Roger’s whiskey before. “Oh, Roger, it’s vile!”

John takes another tiny sip and smiles his gap-toothed smile, placing the glass back on the table. “Yeah, I’m alright for now.”

Patting him on the shoulder, Freddie leans in. “Wise.” Then he’s up again, picking the Scrabble box up off the table. “I suppose we better try another one of these.”

“I don’t think we’re sober enough for that one, Fred.” Brian points out with a chortle.

“Nonsense,” Freddie waves him off.

And so they have a go at Scrabble. 

‘Zeds’ is reluctantly accepted as a word, earning Freddie an impressive score. Brian takes it far too seriously even though he's half asleep and almost gets into a tiff with Roger, who tries to hurry him up by poking him in the ribs with his foot. A few turns later, Roger plays 'cunty' and Freddie gasps and holds a hand up over John's eyes, who in turn gets the giggles but makes no attempt to fight him.

It’s subtle, but it feels like something has shifted. More than that - it’s as though something has clicked into place. It’s not that Freddie’s different. It’s not that John is, either. Roger can’t really put a finger on it. Then again, by the end of the game, the bottle of Southern Comfort is nearly depleted and he’s not sure he can put a finger on his own nose anymore. 

Freddie and John tidy up the game together while Brian's in the bathroom and Roger's stumbling into his pyjamas. The double bed dips when Freddie climbs into it on the other side, and Roger is already drifting off in a drunken haze.

“Rog.” 

Does that require a response on his part? Roger isn’t quite sure. His eyes won’t open.

“Mmh.” That’ll do.

“Good night.” 

A soft whisper. Roger acknowledges it with a grunt. There’s movement right beside him. Freddie, tossing and turning and getting comfortable as usual, before he finally goes to sleep. He takes ages sometimes. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed. 

“Shhh.” Roger doesn’t stop to think about what he’s doing, he’s past any such complicated functions. He reaches out blindly, it’s pure instinct. Distant muscle memory, perhaps. Clare in his bed, once upon a time, small and frightened and restless. It takes over. His fingers collide with warm skin and feel their way along it, discovering a forearm. 

Freddie’s gone quite still now. 

“Shhh,” Roger soothes, and finds the hand attached to that arm. “S’alrigh’.”

Already, the far-away sound of the sea is pulling him under. Freddie’s fingers tighten around his hand ever so slightly.

“Let’s sleep…”

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to hear why Barry left the band, go to the 4m20s mark of [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihDX6YKamvk). (Or I can spare you the suspense and say that it was because of Freddie.)
> 
> He also had this story to share:  
>  _'Professionally, it was obvious right from the start that Freddie was the driving force in the band. Freddie had asked a dressmaker friend to make him a couple of special outfits based upon his own sketches. He saw himself in a slinky black one-piece that left little to the imagination, slashed to the waist exposing his hairy chest. He called it his 'Mercury suit', and commissioned a replica in white._  
>  _My debut took place on August 23rd (1970). Freddie was getting ready for the gig and as I walked into the flat I stopped dead at the sigh of Freddie not only in this Mercury outfit but with great curlers in his hair. I thought, 'Wait a minute, what is this?' I came from greasy bands. Freddie stood there meticulously painting his fingernails black and finishing his hair with a set of heated curling tongs that he used like a pro._
> 
> \---
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!


End file.
